


Like running circles through a dead-end street

by Reyavie



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Arlathan, F/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-Game, Tragedy, What-If Situations, pride is young solas everyone clear on that?, small one-shot ended up neverending, time-travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 15:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11210961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyavie/pseuds/Reyavie
Summary: Wardens sacrificed everything when they joined; everyone knew that. So no one was exactly surprised when Commander Mahariel jumped through a portal before anyone else could reach her.Or how Solas leaves for past Arlathan and is not followed by the Inquisitor. He is followed, though.





	Like running circles through a dead-end street

 

_“Of course, I am coming.”_

_“Then it’s time to leave, my love.”_

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

The Palace moved at its own pace. Slow and smooth, like the magic its Lady would weave with precision throughout the day; always the same, always familiar. In a world of beings which were long lived, they could give themselves the luxury of walking slowly and changing slower. Maybe that was why every change felt foreign, like a sudden clash of lightning on a clear night, like a shadow amongst a sunny day.

He blamed his curiosity in the unexpected.

It was an elf like any other. The same long features, as if smoothed by an unknown artist, the same softness to skin and expression, the same facial structure and vallaslin drawn upon her face, the same simple clothes of the working class. He would have not distinguished her from a thousand others in the beauty of Mythal’s halls except for her vulgarity.

Upon closer inspection, he saw fair skin delineating somewhat lovely features, yet coarse, weathered by unspoken conditions throughout time. The overall structure of her body was the same but thicker, more present, more muscle replacing the etherealness of their kin. A painting done only in broad strokes. No artistry, no detailing, no embellishment. It was almost ugly to look upon.

But the worst, oh, the worst was to feel her. She had almost no connection to the Dreaming world he could sense. Instead, the being was strongly grounded in herself, rejecting anything else as if it did not exist or matter, exuding a feeling which was as close to poison as an aura had the chance to be. This elvhen was sick. Physically, spiritually, overwhelmingly _sick_.

Shining green filled his vision. The valhaslin of their lady framed by short red hair and a smile that was all of bright and open and not at all marred by the death exuding from her skin.

“Speak as you stare,” she declared in a manner that was slightly shy of an order. Her accent grated awkwardly against his ears; forced, like those who never made their way into the Evanuris’ halls. “I mean, it might actually make this interesting to me instead of merely embarrassing or uncomfortable.”

Pride straightened before glancing around him. Yes, he was the only one staring at her openly. Everyone else seemed to have grace enough to, at least, pretend to ignore the woman in their midst which felt like a physical rejection of the Dreaming. Was that why the poison had taken her? Or had it been a consequence of the vileness running through her veins?

Still, there was no reason to allow his curiosity to rule him so.

“It _is_ noticeable. I could not avoid it.”

“Impending death usually is,” she agreed blandly.

Her eyes held no humor, placid emerald responding to his seriousness with the same bluntness of her words. It did not seem the first time she had faced such inquiries over her condition. Which made sense, of course; any with the slightest affinity for the Dreaming would be able to sense whatever she carried. “Lady Mythal believes this poison will not consume me or others. You have nothing to fear from me.”

His blood chilled.

“I have no reason to fear anything from you, child.”

A moment. Another. One more before her gravity broke away, signaling the smallest smile on her lips.

“Am I now?” _Are you not, really,_ he almost heard. “You feel so young, I’m half tempted to split you in half and count you for rings.”

Pride balked, staring at the woman, overthrown by the ridiculousness of the comment. Was that a threat? Or was the woman merely mad?

“I have told you, my love,” an unknown voice interrupted before he broke his countenance to actually ask her what she meant. “Saying those things will have people wondering over your sanity.”

Her smile widened slightly.

“I believe in dislodging their notion of my having any in the beginning of an acquaintance.”

The individual who joined them was as vulgar as she, as steady and grounded but still, very much unlike her, connected to the Dreaming. He was blond, relatively tall, covered in unblemished and undecorated armor. In Mythal’s halls, he held no weapons but there was a twitch to his fingers as he walked to the woman that spoke of a desire to hold one. A soldier of the Lady’s army.

Unlike the woman’s, his vallaslin felt recent. That and maimed. The drawings on his face were perfected, as expected from his Lady’s hands, but the left side... there was a large wave underneath the steady symbols, like an imitator had attempted its hands at something greater than itself. It was a wonder how this man had not been killed, sporting another’s mark so brazenly.

He also completely ignored the woman had been conversing with another, sliding onto into a place by her side and being taken in just as easily. From his place, he could see her fingers digging against the man’s ribs in a way that could not pleasant. All throughout the poison was there, overwhelmingly present and stagnant as frozen in time.

“Not today,” she replied steadily to a question not made. “Not tomorrow, not for as long as she deems it.”

The man’s pleasant expression froze (shattered) for the barest moment before it relaxed into a smile. Had he not been looking, had he not seen that moment, Pride would have been fooled.

“Then I suppose we must make friends if we are to stay, mustn’t we?” The woman continued (fingers digging more tightly, more deeply). “I am Zarya. Our Lady’s newest servant, at your disposal. And this is Zevran. You must be Pride.”

She smiled once more. It reminded him of a savage animal, all teeth, sharp and vicious. And while her gestures were frank and blunt, that smile colored her words until they carried more sarcasm than a thousand veiled insults.

Later, he would wonder who had told her of him.

(He would never know).

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

“Come on, puppy. Up you go. I can’t defend you and carry you back to the camp.”

Her voice crashed through the haze of battle like a sudden storm.

The red-haired woman had come from, apparently, nowhere he could ascertain. Silver armor smudged and stained with red in the moonlight, just as dark as the hair tightly crowning her in braids. A bow was steady in her hand. Apart from it, she carried one single weapon, a long dagger hanging from her waist which she would use to skewer anyone lucky enough to escape the deadly bolts released from her main weapon. She fought analytically, measuring each shot carefully, with a precision and speed which seemed at odds with the ever-present sickness in her veins.

There was no magic being used. None at all.

“Why are you even here?” Words jumped out of his mouth, tangled together and almost unintelligible. “You do not like me.”

The woman had joined Mythal’s soldiers almost immediately after her arrival. And, just as fast, she began appearing and disappearing, her image lingering by the Lady’s side as she reported only to slide onto her companion’s before leaving once again. Whatever the missions she undertook, they were not supposed to be notified beyond a very small circle of beings. Which, in truth, made her an appropriate tool.

It also meant she did not have much time to make friends or even acquaintances.

“You’ll find I don’t like a lot of people here. Too full of themselves, too arrogant. Don’t take it to heart.” He wondered briefly if she realized she had not denied her dislike. Then realized she most likely knew exactly what she had said. It wasn’t like the woman was the one wounded and bleeding. “The Lady would likely kill us if her beloved Pride fell in battle. I am far too young to die.”

The attackers were beginning to break through her hail of arrows and into their makeshift refuge. The bolt in her hand was replaced by the bow as Zarya bashed it against the man’s belly before digging an arrow in his throat. The following enemy was met by the silver flash of her dagger and heralded the disgusting smell of burnt flesh invading his nostrils as the poison on its surface consumed armor and flesh alike. There was no mercy in the casual way she offered death. Her movements were simple, a matter-of-fact manner of killing which finished the battle as fast as her body moved.

“I need healing.”

“Deal with it. Can’t do a spell.” She moved in front of him, restringing his field of vision to punch the next attacker onto the ground. “And I’m busy,” was added an afterthought.

“That makes no sense. We are all...”

An atrocious squelching sound replaced the tang of her bow and cut his words short. Blood dripped down his cheek, staining his teeth and sliding down his skin as red flashed in front of his eyes. Thick liquid adorned the ever-present dagger, _drip drip drip_ , slow and disgusting onto the earth beneath them.

“Personal questions when wounded? Why did no one try that on the wolf? I should leave a message to the Inquisitor somehow. Perhaps in Tevene, stick it in a wall somewhere, confuse the slavers a little. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

She made no sense. And his head hurt so very much.

“Come on.” He had knelt. When had he knelt? Pride felt more than saw her blade return to its sheath, the bow loosely held in her main hand before she hauled him onto his feet. “They’ll send more men soon. We need to be out of here by then.”

He felt himself pushed from the floor and against cold metal. Her armor was slippery, losing color to dirt and remains he didn’t not wish to know about but her hands were steady as she pulled his arm over her shoulders before taking hold of his waist. In his addled state, he could barely see her exhaustion even though, intellectually, he knew she should be. And sick, his mind supplied lowly, there was no trace of sickness slowing her steps. How _odd_.

“How old are you?” He asked, rather stupidly. Where had that come from? “You said…before. You were too young to die.”

She didn’t stop to answer. In fact, head injury or not, he knew she was probably wondering why in the world was he bothering with such inane questioning as they crawled back to the main camp. Pride had an urge to just lean his head against her and allow her to drag him all the way back. She allowed no such thing.

“Two and thirty.”

Two and thirty hundred, no wonder she seemed so settled in her own skin. Like she owned her place in the world after she had battled for every inch of it.

“That is a very respectful age.”

It was his injury. It could only be his injury. Because, when he looked at her, she was smiling. A small one, not even a touch sarcastic. It felt as when she had called him puppy and made him feel younger than anyone under the sun. In a way, it was terribly sad.

“Ah, Pride,” he thought he heard her whisper. “I just can’t understand how he came to be. It is like night from day.”

His head hurt so very much.

“You’re not making sense again,” he complained.

“It will not be the last time.”

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

The Evanuris’ might humbled all those present. Their presence in the Capital, their presence in the very palace of Mythal hushed all its inhabitants to respectful, almost fearful silent. Even his companion. Pride stared at Zarya with passive curiosity. She had refused to dress any differently for the occasion, taking a place by his side in the same simple clothing she used everywhere else. Zevran, who knew where he was? Likely watching from another point for more information. It would not be the first time.

“You could attempt to enjoy the festivities.”

Zarya’s uncommon feel of poison and lack of Dreaming was a shield against the exuberance of spirit presence rushing through the streets. While beautiful, the festivals could be overwhelming at times. It was strange to take comfort from something so lovely in the presence of one who was so apart from it.

Her eyes did not stray from the parade, a steady gaze of green oozing tension at every moment. “Should I be?”

Her lips pressed together, arms crossing over her chest making her seem smaller than usual. A tiny dot of rebellion and discomfort in the middle of the crying crowds.

“If you learn nothing else from me, learn this. Or you won’t live long even when under Mythal’s wings.” Zarya had never spoken to him so seriously as in that moment. “All Leaders are the same. Some are kinder, some are bloodthirsty, some are rational. At the end of the day, the power is theirs and we have maneuver in between their good graces or else ending in the streets would be the greatest grace we could achieve. Learn to think and speak only less than half of half of what you think.”

He twisted his head towards her, brow furrowed and spirit disturbed. “You cannot think you are describing Mythal.”

“Mythal is a leader and kind up to the point where you step on her toes,” she continued collectedly. “Or do you believe this house of hers was built by her fingers alone? I see no calluses on her hands.” Red hair flashed in the air, spirit light reflecting upon curly tresses as she shook her head. “Our Lady is the kindest in a den of brutality, I admit. But I will trust her until the moment I am no longer useful and she will cut me out of Arlathan.”

Mythal would never do that! There were thousands on the Lady’s lair and all that was requested was for them to have an actual function. To throw them out would be unthinkable! It would be cruel! And it was their Lady she was speaking of in a manner that was pure _treason_. How could she dare when anyone else would have her flogged or killed? Why wasn’t he telling her so? He could tell Mythal right then and there!

“You are wrong!” The words left his lips quickly, blurted out irresponsibly.

“And I am sure you spoke far less than what you thought of me right now. Good, puppy. You are learning already.” The archer stood back, turning her back onto the scenery that had so disturbed her. “Let us leave this subject and find my man, shall we? He is probably worried I have caused a small disaster already.”

That uncomfortable feeling overtaking him, whatever it was, did not disappear. It settled, warm and disgusting on his stomach, and rumbled against his body. Pride felt like he would never be able to eat again.

“You shouldn’t speak these things, Zarya,” he advised, fingers curling around her arm before she could walk away. “Someone else will get you killed over them.”

Her lips thinned once more, pressed tightly against each other. “You’ll find I speak far less than half of anything.”

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

“You never told me why you came here.”

The blond man did not favor him with a glance. His attention was locked onto the weapon in his hands, a sturdy blade of no metal Pride could name, carefully checking it for nicks or damage before smoothing it over with a cloth and repeating the process. It occurred to Pride that this was Zevran’s manner of relaxation, the same which took him to the tallest buildings in the city to stare at the rising sun. 

“You never asked, my dear Pride. If I knew you were so interested in our humble story, I might have spun a wonderful one to entertain you throughout the nights.”

Pride struggled not to huff in annoyance. It was so much easier to speak with Zarya. She might make no sense but her replies were to the point, often wrapped up in a humorous comment which limited the sting of her evasiveness. Zevran spun circles around him before he realized no answer had been given. It was most annoying.

The maimed vallaslin twisted by the amused expression the man carried so often. “If you want to know why she is here, I suggest you ask her. I assure you she will answer.”

He had. Of course, he had asked. Why she had come, where she had been poisoned and by whom. _Cure for the curiosity of a brother and the ruthlessness of an old man_ , she had stated, laughing at the incredulity in his face when her reply helped nothing.

“I am a simpler man. I merely followed where she led.” The rogue’s words cut through the irritation that had momentarily taking him. In fact, it was more calming to ponder upon the devotion in his expression which Pride had seldom seen for another except the Evanuris. In fact, he was amazed no one had yet noticed that this man held his companion well above Mythal.

“She doesn’t like it, you know,” Zevran continued, smile firmly in place and his task continuing undisturbed. “She appreciates it, she wishes it more than words can express but she hates that I offer every time. It would be easier for her if she thought me safe even if away from her.”

He could not understand this sentiment. He would follow Mythal, of course, she was his Lady and more necessary than any other in His world. However, Mythal did not exactly need him beyond being an appropriate companion. A friend, even.

“You keep offering it to her.”

Zevran’s eyes were the sharp edge of a dagger, the glint of a beast before it stroke, the poison in Zarya’s veins. “You’ll find that there will be a being which will become the lifeblood of your being. What is safety next to waking every day by her side, her skin against mine?”

Pride generally didn’t hear her coming. Soft footfalls and silk steps and Zarya’s was behind him, her fingers trailing momentarily on his shoulder before kneeling by her companion’s side.

“What are you telling the puppy, Zev?” And Zevran had known she was there or close enough. His eyes barely lifted from the sword but his expression was softer, kinder, infinitely more loving. “Do I need to separate you two?”

Zevran wasn’t right, Pride realized. He might believe she would wish him away, for his safety if nothing else but watching her this way, tugging his arm closer to her, searching for him in order to breathe more deeply… the warrior would chase after him wherever he might walk. It was inspiring to watch.

It was also strangely saddening.

Without a word, he walked out and left them to their devices.

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

The alarms rose soldiers from their beds to defend their city before the night was barely over. Pride had overseen it himself, barking individuals to their rightful place before the rebels could dare to face the large castle. So distracted was he, that he almost missed Zarya. The woman had seen the approaching force, he was sure of it, but her eyes had slid past as she turned back and ran the opposite way. He had exactly a moment to notice Zevran trailing her shadow before the attack began in earnest.

If it was anyone else, he would think them craven, cowards that can only face the training grounds. But he had seen the woman battling dozens to reach him, killing hundreds to drag him home and never did the word coward was less adequate.

 _It is a distraction_ , Pride could not help but think. The attack was unorganized, scattered and frail. Several fronts that stab at the outside walls in several sites instead of barreling through in one organized effort. Several arrows replacing the bluntness of a sword’s blade. Moments passed and the thought became more grounded in his mind, growing like a spider’s web in the night, little claws moving through the Dreaming to encase the whole castle in their hold. Fear gripped his heart.

He was afraid; afraid of something nameless.

When the explosion ripped through the air – from Zarya’s location – Pride found he was not surprised at all. 

His feet moved upon the polished floor before he was aware of it. The night was closer to dawn now, light nudging the inky darkness aside only to be replaced by waves of magic which barreled through the air and filled the castle. Pride didn’t know how anyone could ignore it. Maybe the fear of the attack was taking all their attention. It could only be. All he could feel was that magic, strong, powerful beyond all words and still familiar as the blood in his veins.

She was facing _that_. Whatever _that_ was.

His steps quickened.

The inner courtyard was a marvel. Pride remembered being there when Mythal commissioned it, all of it shining glass tress and crystal ponds drawn by her daughter’s hand. It was that no longer. Glass lied shattered, large holes in the ground where polished marble had once stood. The walls burned green and turned to ash with every passing moment while magic consumed the living creatures which had not managed to flee. And in the middle stood Zarya, a pillar of silver crowned in red, facing her enemy as if the destruction around her mattered nothing when compared to the task ahead of her.

“Wait.” Zevran’s fingers reached for his shoulders before he could join the woman in her battle. “That’s an old beast who should have never lived this long. Leave it to her.”

The Zarya he knew was not serious. She laughed and smiled openly, she spoke too much and said too little, she loved to dance and swallowed books as if starved for information. She lived and loved and serious subjects drifted by her like a passing summer storm except when in battle.

This Zarya was different. Still grounded, she was once again the woman he had first seen in his Lady’s Palace. There was purpose in her stride and hands, there were weapons held between fingers, a bow so bright and solid it could have been built out of ice itself. Her armor was all of serviceable and with as little adorns as possible; in it, she seemed unattainable and unreachable, as Mythal at her most powerful.

Poison rushed through her veins as adrenaline kicked in and the world seemed to break around her. She was the obstacle where the magic of her enemy stopped, a dam so powerful, it seemed like all spells, all magic would beat against her and fade into nothing.

“Zev? What?”

The arrow in her hand sped away, not against the man battling her but against the floor in front of him. Fire erupted, grass dissolved, earth broke away beneath his feet. It was a feint though, Pride realized as her eyes turned back, furiously attempting to understand what was taking place behind her.

“Why is he here?” She yelled out, two arrows already gripped between her fingers. “Get away! I’m about to break it!”

He nearly questioned. He tried, in fact. His words remained unsaid as Zarya raised her hand and closed it in a fist, pulling on something he could not see. Her self, always so contained, expanded like starlight in front of him, _crashing_ into the Dreaming and pulling it away. Away and away until it was overtaking Zevran and it was _touching him and_

Pride fell to the floor, pain ripping through his body.

“Maker damn you, man.” It was Zevran’s voice in his ears as he was bodily hauled, slightly broken and suffering, _of course, he is also of the Dreaming._ “Why did you follow?”

That voice was the only thing he was aware of. The rest was broken in pieces, a thousand little pieces of a tapestry she had smashed somehow. He could not breathe. Strong arms hesitated before pulling him back, away from where the woman stood, arrows flying without interruption from her fingers.

None seemed to make a dent. The man simply batted the projectiles away when close enough or walked to the side whenever the projectile became an explosive by her hands. He seemed to be waiting for her to tire. She was no obstacle, his eyes said, she was not important enough. Pride had no idea why he could read this in the other man’s expression, in the way he gritted his teeth and attacked but seemed to hesitate to take the killing blow.

“Zevran!”

Pride was dumped uncourteously onto the destroyed flooring. When his head stopped turning and he could raise his head from the floor, it was to see Zarya had abandoned her bow for a new weapon, a grey blade of no name which Zevran carried everywhere. She held it as if she had held it a thousand times before, the well-work gauntlet closing around the hilt with a practiced grip, and, suddenly, there was no more hesitation from both parties. Both men saw the moment when the enemy realized such a thing, when his movements became sure and strong and the clash of sword and staff crashed through the air.

Pride pushed himself from the floor, struggling not to vomit as his head twisted and turned.

“Wait. Wait.”

Zevran was coiled tension constrained into a human body. His fists were closed, his legs bent, his whole being ready to push forward at any given moment. And still.

“Wait,” he repeated, _spat out_. “She’s better than him. It’s not over yet.

She was. She was smaller but _thicker_ than her opponent, muscles rippling underneath armor and strength in every limb. Her blade bashed whatever was in front of her, aided by a smaller dagger on the opposite hand. The older man parried every blow calmly, with a security born from experience. Still, Pride could see. His hand would move from his weapon, attempt some spell the woman would simply not allow. Somehow. Every time he tried, she would push harder. Bash more strongly.

The staff gave in under her onslaught, giving her free reign to slash the man’s armor, right shoulder to left hip.

A steady rush of words – it could only be curses – left his lips in a language he could not discern as her opponent pulled back. Centered himself. A move, a hand against the blood now staining his clothes before a rush of magic pushed against her only to collapse onto its origin. The elvhen she had been fighting was replaced with a beast. Pride would call it a wolf, a mutated wolf covered in shining silver fur and armed with teeth as large as she was tall.

She was the better warrior. He was the better _mage_.

“Zarya.” The creature was attempting to placate her even as it bled – powerful, otherworldly so; an evanuris lacking the name to be so. The place where she had wounded him was ignored, even as blood slid past marring the silver fur. It was little more than an encumbrance. “Please, I will explain everything later but you must let me do this.”

The voice resounded through his body, forcing a shiver through his spine.

Her hands gripped Zevran’s sword tightly in response. “Do you think me an idiot? If you touch him, you won’t be alive to explain anything. You won’t exist!”

“How do you know that?” The surprise was almost amusing.

“Oh come on, you fucking idiot! How is it possible that you are this blind? Look at me, you little shit!” Her fist banged against her armor, a shrill piercing sound as metal hit metal. “Who do you think I am? Who would know what you did? Who would follow you this far _back_? Do I need to gank a dragon _here_ in front of your _fucking face_ so you’ll connect the dots?”

The gigantic monster hesitated, fur standing on its edge until it seemed the creature was made of countless silver spikes.

“You’re the…”

“I’m Zarya, you asshole!” She yelled out. “I was always Zarya! But _Zarya_ was a warrior long before she was a _Grey_ and a Commander.”

The way she spoke the word Grey, it felt like a title, it was a title even more important to her than Commander. Commander of what? If Pride’s body could focus on anything else than the _nothingness_ , of the feeling of being her, he’d ask himself that. How could she stand this? How could she feel this alone and not sob continuously?

A new vague of nausea overtook him, forcing him to empty whatever was left in his stomach.

“What are you doing, Warden? What are you doing here? Why?”

Zarya laughed.

There was no joy in that laughter.

“You dare ask me that, wolf?” Every word that left her lips didn’t sound like her. It sounded like the Commander he had named her. Straight spine, strong words, defiance in every sound and beneath, hidden so deep he could barely hear it, enough rage and sadness to flood Arlathan. “You broke the world and would break it again. I’m here because you forced me to be.”

Whatever she was doing, smothered the area, ate away the dreaming, crashed its shards into nothing and _kept going_. Pride was pushed once more against the floor. He was of the Dreaming and the Dreaming was screaming underneath her grasping hands. Even Zevran was struggling. The creature, however, kept walking forward in the direction of the sole warrior still standing, sword at ready and an expression which yelled she would die before she allowed him passage.

Until the wolf stumbled and _crashed_.

There was surprise on his countenance again – though how Pride knew that, he could not say; it was a beast, after all – and pain finally filtered in.

“What is this?” It hissed confusedly, confusion in a beastly face which should not be as elvhen as it was. “Warden, what have you done?”

Pride barely noticed as Zarya’s pendant, the sole item she carried everywhere slid slowly to the ground. It was broken beyond repair.

“Shared my blessings, of course.” The blade touched the floor by her side; black and oozing and stained with blood. “I did wonder if you would be able to resist it. Thankfully, magical prowess does not translate into power where the taint is involved. Who would know?”

The wounds were not closing anymore. His skin took the palest tone; veins purple dark pumping against his skin. His breath came slowly and, even in his confusion, Pride could feel the poison slowly overtaking him, the same which flowed so easily in his friend.

“Zarya!”

Pride saw her wince at his calling. And, oddly enough, knelt by the man she had just condemned to death.

“I came for… for you too, my friend. I wanted…”

“No.” The small words sounded like the cry of a wounded animal. “You won’t make me the cause for your guilt! You came here for your own volition! I’d be home with my family and Zev and Leli if you hadn’t! You came here after attempting to destroy my world and forced me to give up everything I have ever known! I came because you forced me to!”

Pride had never seen Zarya cry. It took witnessing that scene to understand he had never thought it possible.

“You will kill me…that’s what needs to be done.”

“Your memory remains spectacularly accurate for some subjects.”

She didn’t use the sword. Her small dagger was back in her hands and her movements were as sure as an executioner, the blade cutting deep and strong.

The creature’s eyes searched for his and his mouth moved in silent words. But his throat was slashed grotesquely and the poison was rushing through his veins without pity. What a horrible death. He deserved it though, Pride realized. He had killed all of Zarya’s world and Zarya was his friend. His companion. Part of _his_ world. All of what this man had done like amounted to enough to deserve this thankless, lonely death.

“Look elsewhere, Pride.” Zevran had finally stood. There was sorrow in his gaze (a little pity) and so much sadness, it almost clogged his throat. He felt for her too, the former spirit knew. Even more than he because he was Zarya’s half, the other side of the coin.

“I cannot. This was her revenge, wasn’t it?”

“If it was, wouldn’t you think she have looked happier about it?” He asked gently. “No. She did this because, as always, my dearest lady does what needs to be done. Never forget that, yes? Even when it seems like things are stacked against you, that is why she acts.”

When Zarya stood and turned, her green eyes were bright indeed.

When she walked closer, trails of water smudged blood, grime and dirt down her expression, drawing more attention that the wounds which remained open and bleeding.

He did not comment when she drew them both into her arms and sobbed onto whichever shoulder was closer. One day, she would explain.

He hoped.

(She never would).

 

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

“I am not sure we are doing the right thing.”

“If you were, I would think you as mad as any of our dearest Lords and Ladies. We do things because we think they are right. Not because we know they are right.”

Zarya had aged since Mythal’s death. Not a lot, Pride acknowledged, not enough to be perceptible, but whatever the Evanuris did during the years she had commanded the red-haired woman had keep her whole and partially healthy. And yet, Mythal had been taken from them, plunging the world in war and death. Zarya was merely yet another price claimed from those murderers. Another task to pursue, another evil to put to right. He would have to fix it. Someway, somehow, before it was too late and he lost yet another.

“Sensible. As always, my friend.”

At any other moment, the claim that Zarya was sensible would have made her laugh out loud. The moment was too dire though. Instead, she stared up at him, an attentive frown marring her placid expression. The archer seemed honestly confused by whatever thought running through her mind.

“We are, aren’t we?” She asked lightly. “In a way? I did not wish it.”

He spared her an annoyed glance. “You know, one day you should explain to me these comments you speak. They are terribly upsetting.”

Magic ran around them in shining circles, cloying the air and snapping at the shield which Zarya’s presence created. The spell was already trickling towards his reserves of strength, beginning to claim his awareness instead of the half-attention he had been giving it. A little more, wasn’t that fine? To look upon his friend’s face and bright eyes, the steadiness of her figure right by him. Always so steady. Always knowing what to do and where to walk.

“Where’s Zevran?”

“Outside.” Her smile was twisted in dry amusement. “Are you truly making small talk?”

Pride found himself shrugging. Mythal help him, to stand there, to speak, it was draining whatever strength not taken by his spell. “I would see you smile before I do this,” he declared slowly. “Zevran usually manages so.”

“Aren’t I smiling?”

“Your true smile. Not whatever you call whatever you are sporting.”

She would not smile. Her expression was set, lines drawn by a frown no levity would be able to erase. He would not see this again, would he? The spell would take him; that was the price this new world would take. But it would save her and it would save her love and so many of his people who deserved better than the Evanuris and their lawless ways.

Pride breathed deeply, turning towards the foci. Hands gripped the sphere tightly between his fingers. “Time to face the end.”

“We will help with the clean-up,” Zarya assured lowly. “Do what you have to do, Pride. We will be outside when you are done.”

The spell grew. Tendrils of the Dreaming touched his skin, trying to distract him, to stop him from what would take place. He would not. He had seen the world was possible without it. He had seen Zarya walk apart from it, hale and whole, even as he sickened and failed to stand. It would hurt. It would weaken some. At the end of the day, however, those who preyed upon the People would be locked behind a veil of his own making, sleeping where they could hurt no one.

It would also be his Fate. It was the price. Pride could feel the sleep already taking control of his limbs, could feel numbness slowly creeping, whispering in his ears.

No. No, those whispers were others speaking.

“Zarya, you shouldn’t feel guilty.” It was a man, steady and strong. His friend? Was it? “We simply kept the world as it should be.”

“Did we?” A woman. He had just told her goodbye. He knew her voice, he was sure. “Or did we create it? Nowadays, I am not sure which path we took.”

Those were the last words he would hear for countless ages.

(He would remember none of them.)

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

“Zarya?”

The woman by Skyhold’s doors did not hear his soft question. She carried herself well and strong, armored hands gesticulating wildly as she spoke with the spymaster. Leliana was young still and yet, she seemed even younger in that moment. The wide grin gracing her features would make her soldiers doubt her to be the same person who had threatened to kill whomever had lost her missives that very morning.

“Who is the woman with our spymaster, Commander?”

Cullen looked up from his paperwork and narrowed his eyes through the open window.

“No wonder she was excited this morning. I had no idea Mahariel was coming.” At Solas’ confused glance, he continued. “Mahariel? The Warden. Or, if you prefer, the Hero of Ferelden though it is likely she will slap you if you use that title. They fought together during the Blight.”

Mahariel, not Zarya. Of course. Zarya would not be here. She was long dead and gone, scattered to the four winds in the world he had destroyed. Even if this woman looked like her, with her lively green eyes which shone like the emerald groves with their everlasting graves. Even if her hair was fire in the sun, moving faintly with the icy currents of Skyhold and her expression was brighter than the sunlight itself. His Zarya was dead. His friend was dead. Even if this woman looked like her in this world made of shadows, even if she would feel tangible, she was not Zarya. Mythal keep him, this world was attempting to break him.

Laughter rang through the hair and he shivered. It even _sounded_ like her.

“Solas, are you alright?”

“I’m not sure. It feels like… how does the saying goes. Someone walked on my grave?”

He would save them all. The people, his followers, Mythal, Zarya and Zevran. All he needed to do was to fix things the right way. He had no time to lose with mirages and ridiculous wishes.

Without turning back, Solas, _Pride_ , Fen’harel of his people, walked away.

(Had he come closer for a mere moment, he would have felt traces of poison upon the wind, the taint of Grey staining the woman’s body.)

  

**xxxXXXxxx**

****

“Are you sure about this?”

Zarya had this way of smiling which was open. Full and bright, like the whole world was a giant bundle of beauty that not even the Dark Roads could take from her. She loved it so. The world, her world, her people, him. The smile upon her face then was nothing like her usual. It was bitter and sad, as if her emotions had been poisoned by the setting sun.

“Of course not. But I did always think the sacrifice part of the wardens’ motto was wrong connected with death. Our life is a giant sacrifice, after all. If no one goes, if no one stops him, our world is well and truly over. He doesn’t have the right to do such a thing again.” His Warden did a small pause, carefully appraising every inch of his face. “My dear, you fell in love with the worst person.”

“It was not the first time.”

Her eyes turned to him. He could see hope and pleading underneath the placid green. _Please, stay. Please, don’t go. Please, don’t leave me alone._

“Of course I am coming.”

Her smile shifted once more and it was familiar as a warm fire at night. Gods, Maker, Creators above, how he loved this woman. He looked at their surroundings vaguely, a last goodbye to a homeland which had never truly been his. She was.

“Then it is time to leave, my love.”

Their hands met, fingers entwined tightly. Neither looked back as they followed the wolf through the portal.

They had a past to preserve.

~~~~~~~~

 

_The Palace moved at its own pace. Slow and smooth, like the magic its Lady would weave with precision throughout the day. In a world of beings which were long lived, Zarya felt like an odd piece out. Her blood rushed, her heartbeat sang in her ears, her hands twitched in search for weapons she was not carrying because, at any moment, she could be attacked and there would be no time for defense. Creators, she could not dally._

_She blamed her curiosity on the unexpected, standing on a place where everything was so clear and beautiful while knowing darkness filled the paths beneath her feet. And she could not lose time.  
_

_Blue eyes met hers through the hall, a pair she had seen just a few times before her world was taken from beneath her feet. Young, miraculously young and innocent._

_“Speak as you stare,” she declared in a manner not unlike the one she would use with her recruits. “I mean, it might actually make this interesting to me instead of merely embarrassing or uncomfortable.”_

_It was time to end his world._

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you for taking the time to read this. In case it is not understandable, the Warden to travelled back in time with the main objective of stopping him from killing or warning his younger self. The second objective, of course, would be to ensure the veil was created. To her, her world depends on it. Her people and her family. The veil needed to happen, even with the price it took. Why the Warden? Because it is still my favorite. The poison used by Zarya against Solas is the blood of the archdemon used in the Joining, that the wardens carry in a pendant around their necks. It is both the Taint and the fact that Zarya is a Templar that cause her disconnection from the Dreaming. In a world where there is no veil, even Zevran would have a tenuous connection to it. Pride did not recognize Solas in the same manner our ten-year-old self would fail to recognize our sixty-year-old. That and a ton of artistic freedom. Roll with it.  
> I thought many times to try and shorten this, particularly the battle but I found I could not. Hopefully, it will not be as verbose as my mind tells me it is. I might add little scenes at a later date because the idea of the warden hanging around Arlathan amused me far too much. Enjoy. And if you, dear reader, liked it, feel free to signal such.


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